The Father's Day Card
by Phx
Summary: Sam is shocked to find out Dean still carries on a Father's Day tradition that he started when they were kids...


**Set: Before the brother's found their father... **

**Happy Father's Day. This story is dedicated to the memory of my own father... He raised me and my brother the best that he could. And like John Winchester he was in no way perfect, and he did make mistakes, but his heart was in the right place - so, Dad, thank you... Phoenix**

**The Father's Day Card**

"Okay dumbass, get over here," Dean Winchester said as he pushed open the motel room door and stepped inside, a white shopping bag slung over his arm and a big grin plastered on his twenty-six year old face.

His younger brother, Sam, stretched out on his bed with his back against the headboard, looked up from the book he was reading. "Aha," he quipped, "the mystery shopper has returned… You going to tell me what your urgent mission was about now?"

Earlier that morning, while getting dressed, Dean had announced he needed to pick up some stuff and then left, instructing his younger sibling to stay put and stay out of trouble, leaving the younger boy burning with curiosity.

"Yeah. Yeah. That's me. A real man of mystery," Dean chuckled lightly as he lay the white shopping bag down on the table and started to pull stuff out.

Sam moved to stand beside him and then frowned – puzzled – as he sorted through the items his brother had bought: a paper drawing pad with colored sheets of paper, glue, glitter, fine tip markers, charcoal… _crayons?_ "Uh Dean?" he asked, hesitantly, "Is there something I should know?" He paused and added, "What is all this?" He picked up a pair of safety scissors and eyed them suspiciously.

"What does it look like Einstein?" his brother smirked, obviously very pleased with himself.

"It _looks_ like you mugged some third grade art teacher," Sam shot back, flashing his brother a quick dimpled smile and then scowling as he fingered a crayon. "And exactly what kind of color is _inch worm_?"

Dean looked over at the crayon his brother was now holding. "Ah… green, dude. What's wrong, you color blind or something?" he chuckled, "That would certainly explain a few things though -" he glanced at his brother's shirt, "like that shirt and those pants…"

Sam reflexively looked down, "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"

"Nothing technically…" his brother consoled and then turned away, muttering under his breath, "if you _never_ want to get laid."

"What was that?" the younger man demanded as he put the inch worm green crayon back in the box with the other ones.

"Geek!" Dean sneezed and then grinned as he patted his chest, "Sorry, man. I got a tickle in my throat." His brother did not look convinced but chose to ignore him anyway.

"So are you going to explain… or do I just guess that our new gig is taking care of Rosemary's baby?"

"Ooh nice one, bitch," the older man congratulated as he sat down at the small motel room table and tested one of the charcoal's on a white piece of paper. "Don't you ever look at the calendar?"

"_The calendar?"_ Sam repeated, confused. "What's that got to do with anything?"

"It's Father's Day on Sunday," Dean stated bluntly and his brother's eyes widened in surprise – he hadn't even thought about it. "Don't know how you could've missed it – "

"Oh," Sam shifted uncomfortably; he wiped his hands on his jeans and backed away from the table, returning to his bed and picking up the book again.

"Oh what?" the older hunter glanced up at his brother and he frowned. "Come off it man, you're not going to start this again, are you?"

"Start what?" his brother asked, flipping the book open to the last page he'd read.

"You know what," Dean told him as he sat back in the chair and watched Sam. "Come off it Sam – he's still our father."

"That's not it, Dean, and you know it," Sam defended.

"Then what's the problem?"

"You know what the problem is," the younger man retorted. "Nothing's changed since we were kids." He frowned and sank back against the headboard. "Man. I can't believe you are still doing this."

"Why?" Dean was puzzled. He looked down at the craft supplies and then back at his brother.

"Dude – you are twenty-six years old. _Men_ don't make cards for their fathers, they buy them," Sam didn't mean to sound cruel but as he saw the brief flash of pain on his brother's face, he felt terrible. "We can buy him a card, Dean," he tried to smooth it over.

Dean didn't say anything. He just bent over the table and started sketching on a piece of black paper with chalk.

"Dean?" Sam pressed and then snorted and rolled his eyes. "Great. Wonderful. The silent treatment. That's rather mature." His brother still didn't acknowledge him. "Look Dean. I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings but I just don't understand why you insist on making Dad a card every year, when it's much easier to just buy one."

"That's why," the older man said, as he frowned, crumpled up the paper he was working on, tossed it in the garbage and then started again.

"What?"

"You heard me, Sam," Dean's voice was quiet. "And since when did we ever take the easy way out on anything?" His voice strangely mimicked their father's. "There's the simple way… and then the Winchester way."

Sam sighed, leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. "Yeah. I know."

Dean put down the chalk and stared at his brother. "Look. If you want to _buy_ a card. Go. I won't stop you." He leaned back over his drawing again and gently blew at the chalk dust.

The younger hunter opened his eyes and watched him for a few quiet moments, transfixed by the intense look of concentration on his brother's face. It was rare to see Dean so focused on something he couldn't kill. "What'cha drawing anyway?" he finally asked.

"Nothing important," his brother's tone was cold.

"Dean-"

"Sam."

Exhaling loudly, Sam pulled his long body off the bed and approached the table. He sat down in the chair across from his brother and picked up a black felt marker, fidgeting with it for a few moments as he watched the older man draw.

His brother was actually very skilled; since he was little, Dean had always been good with his hands –

And nothing had changed.

Watching as Dean effortlessly worked, a wave of nostalgia made Sam shiver. He was reminded of all the times when they were younger and his brother had drawn just for him. Sketched silly things and stick people to keep Sam entertained and helped pass the time when he was bored or distracted when he was scared…

Unbeknownst to Dean, his younger brother still had a couple of drawings, counting them among his few precious belongings.

"It's pretty good," Sam commented.

Dean glanced up at him with one eyebrow raised but still said nothing. They both knew it was better than 'pretty good'.

After a few more minutes, Sam picked out a sheet of yellow paper and stared at it. This was something his brother had started when they were kids…

Never having their own money, and not wanting to ask their father for funds to get him something for Father's Day, Dean somehow always managed to pilfer enough paper, crayons, glue and whatever else they needed so they could each make John a personal card… and they did. Every year. Until Sam went to university.

The young hunter had just assumed that somewhere along the way his brother had given up doing this in favor of buying a card, now that Dean had his own money, but apparently not.

No more than Sam himself had stopped giving Dean Mother's Day Cards…

"Sam?" Dean's voice interrupted his musing and he glanced up to see his brother looking at him. "Dude, it's just a piece of paper."

"Huh?" the younger man was confused and looked back down at the yellow sheet he was still holding.

His brother smirked. "Earth to geek, come in geek." He reached across and tapped the paper. "What are you? A closet tree hugger? You look like you're about to cry."

Sam snorted and straightened in his seat. "You're such an asshole," he retorted even as he laid the paper flat on the table and took the lid off the black felt marker.

His brother snorted. "Yeah well better an asshole who can drawn than one who can't."

"Ouch," the younger man grimaced. "That was low. Just because my stick people are of a different quality-"

"_Different?_" Dean almost choked as he tried to laugh and breathe at the same time. "Is that what they're calling it these days? Man, your stick people need secret decoder rings just to take a piss."

Sam stared at his brother and then shook his head. "Dean that made absolutely no sense."

"I know," his brother grinned, returning his attention back to his own drawing, "but it sounded cool."

The younger hunter snorted. He carefully folded his paper in half to make the card and then just stared at it. Although it had been in jest, Dean had a point – Sam was many things, but an artist of any caliber, he was not.

_His stick people didn't need a decoder ring, they needed labels._

This was why he hated making his father a card…

The young man just could not draw.

Dean glanced back up at him a few minutes later, reached out and plucked the blank piece of yellow paper from beneath Sam's hand and stared at it. He pursed his lips, turned it upside down and stared harder.

"Uh… Sam?" he started after a few moments of doing this.

"Drop it Dean." the younger boy growled, knowing exactly what his brother was going to say.

"But Sam-"

"Uh. I think I said shut up… in a nice way," Sam glowered across the table at his brother.

"I know but-"

"Dean!" Sam snatched back his paper. "Screw off! Go draw yourself into a corner or something."

Dean laughed and stood up. "Poor kid," he commiserated insincerely. "Picasso has nothing on you. Or he wouldn't have anyway… if you'd actually _draw_ something!"

His brother just glared.

Putting up his hands in a placating gesture, Dean moved towards the door. "All right. All right. Calm down. I'm going to grab some coffees-" he glanced towards the paper. "Humor me, Sam. Put something on that paper, okay?"

Sam pursed his lips and slouched over the table, a dejected looking figure if there ever was one.

Dean rolled his eyes and sighed. "Look Sam-" he said seriously. "Dad doesn't care that you can't draw worth shit… He never has. It's the thought okay? And you're supposed to be good at thinking. So get to it." And then he was out the door and strolling towards the Impala before Sam could say anything.

…

Dean's words echoed in Sam's mind… _It's the thought okay?_ He rubbed his neck thoughtfully and then ran his fingers through his dark brown hair. _Exactly what did he want this card to say to his father?_

He thought back to all the cards he had made his father and then a slow smile spread across his face as he remembered the very first one he made. Dean had helped… and suddenly he knew exactly what he wanted to draw. And to say...

Twenty minutes later when Dean came back with two coffees and a bag of take-out, Sam was snoozing on the bed and the finished card was placed side by side with the one Dean had made.

The older boy titled his head and looked at the card. He opened it and read what was written before nodding approvingly at his younger brother.

'_That'll do kid.'_ He thought proudly. _'That'll do just fine…'_

Sitting quietly at the table, he finished his coffee and let Sam sleep. When his brother woke up, they'd pack their stuff and head out again. They had one stop to make – a small post office box.

And after dropping off their cards for their father, the brothers would hit the road in search of their next hunt…

On Father's Day they would drink a toast to the man who had taught them so much. They might not have always agreed on his methods, but in the end they were alive to bitch about it, and that was all that mattered.

ooooooOOOOOOoooooo

**Father's Day:**

The throaty rumble of the large black truck preceded it as it pulled into a parking place outside a small row of mail boxes.

A tired man with a scruffy beard and world weary eyes, shoved open the door and stepped out. He moved with ingrained stealth to the small box and inserted a key.

He just knew it would here. Dean never missed Father's Day… and sure enough it was; a letter sized brown envelope with the word "DAD" printed on it in Dean's neat handwriting and John Winchester smiled as he saw it. Fingering the scrawl, he felt a painful longing knotting in his chest.

The man knew he could make the call, and quell the ache… but he wouldn't. Not yet. It was still too dangerous... for them all.

So instead he took the brown envelope and walked back to the truck, opened the door, sat down heavily in the seat and carefully ripped open the seal. He had been expecting to see Dean's homemade card and he was not disappointed.

Pulling it out with a care reserved for great treasures, John felt his eyes burn as he saw the meticulously drawn picture; white chalk on a black page. It was a Winchester rifle…

John opened the card and smiled. Inside Dean had written:

_John Winchester. Just like the rifle but twice as deadly._

_Happy Father's Day, Dad. _

_Love Dean_

The man closed the card and stared at the picture, once again marveling at the skill his oldest son hand. The gun was so detailed, the hunter could almost feel the cold steel beneath his fingers as he stroked the drawing. It was no wonder that Dean's high school teachers had encouraged him to consider Art as a career…

John sighed loudly. This was not the life he had wanted for Dean. For either of his boys.

And then he noticed something else. The envelope was not empty.

Reaching inside, he pulled out a second card and actually blinked in shock.

_Sammy?_

It was from Sam.

One word was written on the front of the card: _DAD_ and the man chuckled softly as he recognized his younger boy's chicken scratch- like scrawl. The kid was bright but when it came to spelling and handwriting… well they weren't exactly listed among his finer talents.

Opening up the card, he froze, an oddly humbling feeling spreading throughout his body.

Unlike Dean, Sam hadn't drawn anything. He had traced… his hand.

And in the center of the hand were two words: _THANK YOU_

With trembling fingers, John placed his own over the drawn one. He clearly remembered the first card Sam had ever given him was similar, minus the words of appreciation. It had just been an outline of his baby boy's hand… the same hand, now grown and once again traced almost twenty years later.

And he understood exactly what Sam was thanking him for – his life.

John smiled and let out a contented sigh. He was tired and he was weary. But above all, he was loved.

Carefully, refolding both cards, he placed them back in the brown envelop and then into the glove compartment. Later that night, when he'd gotten a motel room and settled in, he'd pull out the small brown box of personal items he carried and add these two cards to it… these two cards would take their rightful place next to every other card his boys had made for him over the years.

John carried them all. _How could he not?_

**Happy Father's Day!**

**The End**


End file.
